


Golden Delicious

by SlimReaper



Series: Festivals [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Body Paint, Festival of the FIve, M/M, Other, Ratchet is a Trophy Wife, The Author Regrets Nothing, They're being stupidly sweet and ridiculous, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, dratchet - Freeform, iopele, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 18:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13347150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/pseuds/SlimReaper
Summary: Drift looked so damn good in that ceremonial paint from the Victor's Ceremony at the Festival of Primus, Ratchet might've developed a taste for gold.





	Golden Delicious

Drift didn’t move at first, even though he’d awakened at the first soft, cold caress across his plating. There was no confusion. No, he knew exactly what was happening, and he was… well, not quite _used to it_ , but… perhaps the right word was _resigned_. He suppressed a sigh and maintained the slow cycle of his field, waiting to discern what design his conjunx had in mind this time. Most of the time he could figure out what pattern Ratchet was painting before he’d even finished, something that exasperated his mate no end.

This time, though, he had no clue. So far all he could tell was that Ratchet had heavily painted his throat before moving down to his chest, long, thick lines that seemed almost abstract.

But there was only so much of the ticklish sensation over his plating that he could stand without wriggling, and as the brush moved down to stroke long slow lines over the flexion seams between his abdominal stripes, he gave up the pretense of recharge to sigh, _“Again,_ Ratch?”

Ratchet jumped and made a sound he would never, ever admit was a yelp, and Drift onlined his optics to grin at his mate. “Drift!” the medic growled, clearly flustered and just as clearly trying to hide it as he brandished the gold-smeared paintbrush threateningly, “you almost made me screw up this line!”

Drift propped himself up on one elbow to glance down over his torso. Of course he couldn’t see his own throat, but he could easily see the thick gold lines traveling down to his chestplate and swirling around its border. Ratchet had all but ignored the broad expanse of the chestplate itself, just painting a few perfunctory swirls there instead of the elaborate patterns he usually favored. Instead, he’d concentrated heavily on tracing his transformation seams, painting thick lines especially on the most sensitive of them, which was why he’d had a lot harder time ignoring the tickling this time around. “You ever gonna get tired of painting gold on me?”

Ratchet had recovered enough to smirk as he dipped the wider-than-usual brush into the pot of gold paint. “Maybe when you stop looking so positively _delicious_ in it,” he purred, and leaned up for a kiss that was far too brief before going back to his painting.

The speedster gave a long-suffering sigh--only partially exaggerated--and let him get on with it. While it was truly gratifying to know that Ratchet found him so sexy, and that the sight of him in gold paint reminiscent of his ceremonial paint as the Victor of the Race of Primus was all it took to get his conjunx revved up and eager to ‘face him through the berth, Drift wished that the amazing lovemaking came without the ticklish application process or the sticky feel of the paint on his plating. And the less said about the itching as it dried and began to flake and settle into his seams, the better.

But he’d put up with a pit of a lot worse than this for the mech he’d loved almost his entire life.

Ratchet really did seem determined to trace every single one of his seams this time instead of creating a pattern, though, and Drift was having to fight not to squirm now. He did his best to stay still, knowing that wiggling around would only make this process take longer.

But then Ratchet unexpectedly ran the brush around the lip of his interface panel and he couldn’t keep from shuddering. The tip of the brush slipped sideways into the joint of his inner thigh and Ratchet tutted reproachfully. “Driiiiiiift,” he complained, drawing out his name like a complaining sparkling, “just look what you did. You made me mess up!”

“Sorry, love,” Drift said, and he meant it. This would only mean it would take even longer for Ratchet to finish with whatever pattern he had in mind this time, and Drift was beyond ready to finish the painting part and move on to the _get fragged through the berth_ part of the process.

The medic sighed and set the brush and paint carefully aside on the berthside table. “Guess I’ll just have to clean it off,” he said, but something in his tone was off, and his field… no matter how he tried to hide it, his field was full of what could only be called _mischief._ When Ratchet glanced up and saw the suspicion that Drift wasn’t even trying to keep from his expression, he actually winked before bending down to get a better look at the smear.

… except that he didn’t stop moving closer, and he wasn’t reaching for a cloth either. “Ratchet? What are you--” Drift began, but before he could finish the question, Ratchet answered it.

By swiping his glossa over the streak of paint, chasing it all the way to the seam and flicking the tip down inside to tease across the hypersensitive cables and wires there. Shock and desire surged through Drift’s systems. _“Ratchet!”_ he gasped, hips twitching instinctively even though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get closer or further from the intense sensation.

Ratchet’s hands clamped over the top of his thighs and held him still for another slow stroke of his glossa, and then still another after that, his mouth hot and wet and oh, so thorough. By the time Ratchet finally pulled away, Drift’s frame had very firmly decided on _yes more_ as the proper reaction, and he moaned a protest when his lover lifted his head.

Only then did he realize that Ratchet had just licked up _actual paint_ and that couldn’t be good for him, could it?

Before he could question it, though, Ratchet raised his helm and gave him a very pleased grin as he licked his gold-smeared lips clean. “Edible paint--honeymoon gift from Sunstreaker,” he said smugly, and Drift’s systems pulsed with heat as he finally realized exactly why Ratchet had chosen the areas he’d painted.

_His throat… his most sensitive seams… all around his panel…_

He shivered with anticipation. “Oh Primus, I think you just might persuade me to rethink my opinion of your paint fetish this time,” he said, vocalizer already going hoarse with static, and Ratchet’s field positively glowed with anticipation and pleasure.

“I _might_ , huh?” he chuckled as he shifted to kneel over Drift’s hips. “Sounds like I still have some persuading to do.”

Drift couldn’t resist stroking his mate’s sturdy thighs and didn’t try. Ratchet’s plating was just as hot as his, even trembling slightly with anticipation and desire. Sweet Primus, just knowing Ratchet was this revved up for him was enough to kick Drift’s fans on, but he tried to maintain the reluctant act as best he could. “It’s only fair to warn you, I’m pretty hard to convince,” he warned. “It might take _hours_ to persuade me.”

Ratchet laughed as he reached over and dipped a fingertip in the pot. “Guess I’d better not waste any time, then,” he purred, and reached up to smear the gold paint over Drift’s lips before leaning in to claim a kiss.


End file.
